Beautiful Monster
by Aldira
Summary: Before Ron and Hermione, there had been someone else, who may have not considered him a friend, but Harry had sworn loyalty to him regardless.


Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or Once Upon a Time.

Warning: Future slash.

**Beautiful Monster**

It was a chilly winter night in England, street lamps casting dim glows on the unforgiving cement. The street was deserted, for any normal person in Privet Drive was tucked safely away in their toasty homes, burrowed tightly under cosy covers. A black cat jumped silently from the tree, landing gracefully onto the dewy grass. Its pink nose twitched as if it smelled a caseous odor, whiskers following the minute movement. A small paw was brought to a delicate mouth, a coarse tongue paying particular attention to the thin wrist. The creature suddenly paused, tongue hanging mid-lick. Dark pointed ears cocked to the sky, form tense. There was something different in the air, something ominous. The lithe body waited another second before darting under the house of its owner, silently ducking under the creaky floorboards to settle amongst the slightly cooler dirt, weeds poking up and tickling its pert nose. Slitted yellow eyes stared eerily from the darkness, waiting out the incoming danger. Fur bristling, tail straightening, the cat hissed as a shadow swooped down over Privet Drive. Soon, the playful tune of a pan flute filled the empty streets of Surrey, echoing in the still night. The music was undeniably beautiful, but there seemed to be a dangerous edge to it. The hypnotic notes went unheard of, except for one lonely inhabitant of Number 4.

Verdant eyes blinked away any lingering tendrils of slumber, batting away tempting thoughts of dreams and rest to focus on the enchanting music. Tossing the threadbare cloth that was a poor excuse for a blanket aside, the boy swung his legs off the moth-eaten mattress. Shivering when his small, childish feet made contact with the freezing wooden floorboards, he hurriedly tip-toed to the only window of the cupboard. It was small and compact, only meant to complete its sole purpose: to provide light in the otherwise dark and gloomy room.

There had once been a light bulb that dangled from the low ceiling, but after seeing the dim glow from under the crack of door, Uncle Vernon furiously unscrewed the orb all the while grumbling about the waste of energy and money and threatening to card his sorry little arse off to the orphanage. The boy ducked his head, never more glad for the oversized hand-me-downs his aunt threw at him whenever Dudley outgrew his clothes. With his chin pressed against the collar of the faded, ugly gray jumper, he stared down at the equally bland blanket cover. His fingers played with the little holes that littered the thin cloth as he apologized to his uncle for waking him up and that no sir, it would not happen again. With loud grumbling and heavy footsteps, Vernon slammed the door of the cupboard close, leaving the boy submerged in total darkness. Trying to shake off the remnants of the nightmare, he closed his eyes fearfully only to have the streaks of acidic green light pierce through his mind and the horrified shrieks of a woman echo in his ears.

Even standing on his tiptoes, he could barely see out the window. He needed to see whoever was playing though, needed to get out, he couldn't quite explain why. Not bothering to try the door since it would undoubtably be locked, he decided to try another option. Pushing the small cot to the wall with the window was easy. Now that he could at least see outside with ease, he opened the window and wormed his way through the small space, landing in a waist-high brush with an audible crash. Freezing amongst the sharp twigs and leaves, he waited with bated breath to see if his relatives heard, but when the booming footsteps of his uncle didn't stomp angrily down the stairs, he assumed that it was safe to continue.

Not once did the music halt. It beckoned him to run out into the street in nothing but his much too big jumper and incredibly loose khakis that blurred into endless streams of ratty strings at the edges. At least he had on a pair of socks to somewhat cushion the rough contours of the harsh cement.

Standing under the nearest streetlamp, he closed his eyes, relishing in the unknown, mystical notes of the song. It was unlike anything he had heard before. All too soon, it ended. With the vague sense of melancholy that usually followed after experiencing something so otherworldly and inevitably having to return to normalcy once more, the boy prepared to sneak back into the cupboard when a pair of ice cold arms wrapped itself around him.

He barely had time to gasp before they were flying. Flying. Really flying. The very thing that humanity could only mimic and imitate. It was understandable that he was too busy gaping in childish wonder at the new, thrilling sensation of flight, relishing in the biting breeze, to fully comprehend the fact that he was being kidnapped.

The next thing he knew, he was set down in the middle of a clearing, and as he turned around in hopes to at least catch sight of his abductor, he realized that there were other children in similar states of dress and confusion. Looking all around, taking in the various heights and builds, he could easily see that he was the youngest of them all.

A surrounding forest bordered the edges of the clearing, dense shrubbery guarding whatever elusive secrets it contained, forever trapped inside its formidable walls.

He shivered, a sense of regret started to build in the pit of his stomach. What was he thinking, going out in the dead of night to investigate?

There was a sharp crack, followed by the sudden heat of fire, nearly burning his retinas from the sheer brightness of the flames. The other children jerked back as well, the fear and panic finally settling in.

"Welcome, boys," a teen emerged from behind the fire, a dark smirk on his face. He looked to be about 17 with auburn hair, though that could just be a false illusion cast by the strong fire. He was a bit too far to determine the exact shade of his eyes, but he would hazard a guess to an obsidian black or another deep color that would glisten menacingly to complement his sinister personality. The teen exuded an arrogance in his stride as he paced back and forth, shadows playing across his face wickedly. Unlike with Dudley, the boy knew that this teen had something more than just a few strong punches to back up his confidence. There was a barely restrained wildness in his eyes, one that could be mistaken for insanity. He could tear you down without lifting a finger, stitch you back, only to repeat the process again. He was dangerous, that was for sure.

"I see all of you are confused and understandably a bit frightened, but I can assure you that as long as you're on this island, you've nothing to fear," he said as he paced, hands clasped behind his back, leaning forward slightly. He looked each and every one of them in the eyes before continuing with his speech.

"It's not a coincidence that you're all here," he stopped, standing in front of them. "You all heard the pan playing, which means that in some way, you are unhappy with your life."

The teen hopped onto a log, walking along the uneven ridges of the decaying wood nonchalantly. "Whether it be neglect from your parents, abuse from the neighborhood bully, or the shadow of an overachieving sibling."

"Like it or not," he landed gracefully off the log, staring at them, "they don't need you. They don't want you."

There was a strangled sound that could be heard all round the clearing as someone choked back the urge to cry.

The teen gave a pitying glance, if it was genuine or not was impossible to tell.

"But you are needed here. You are wanted here. We can be a family of our own. Adults are liars. They try to confine us with their set of rules. But here, there are no rules. We don't need to listen to the poison that they've been forcing down our throats."

Steadily, a rise of mumbling agreements rose within the group; indignity colored their cheeks, growing restless at the injustice they've been dealt.

The teen was a genius, he would have to give him that. With just a few words, he had won a crowd of strangers to his side.

"Well, what are you guys waiting for? Let's play."

The sound of the pan soon filled the air once more. The boys quickly started dancing around the fire and laughter joined the music.

"Hi."

He turned around to see a boy of around 12 or 13 years of age smiling at him. Dark brown hair was swept to the side and kind, if a bit lonely, brown eyes stared down at him.

"I'm Baelfire," he extended a hand.

"I'm Harry," he shook Baelfire's offered appendage.

"Why aren't you dancing?" Baelfire asked curiously.

"I've never done this before," Harry admitted shyly.

"Me neither. My father doesn't let me out of the house, so I never got the opportunity to spend time with children my own age."

Harry hesitated before deciding to divulge his own reason, or at least a part of it. "My cousin usually chased off any friends that I made."

"So we're both new at this."

"I'm afraid so."

Baelfire grinned, tugging Harry forward to join in on the dance. "It's okay, we'll learn as we go."

The two shared a laugh as they tumbled down into the grass, which was either damp with dew or simply cold from the night temperature.

"Well, that was fun, wasn't it, Harry?" Baelfire asked, laying on his back and staring up at the stars, breathing in the warm scent of the crackling fire and reveling in the high feeling of happiness in his chest.

Harry agreed, not tired despite the fact that he had been dancing for who knows how long, way past his usual sleeping time.

They laid in silence, listening to the ongoing raucous of the elder teens.

"Hey, Baelfire?"

He received a small, noncommittal hum. Harry played with the frayed fabric of his shirt habitually.

"Could I call you Bae?"

"Hmm? Oh, sure," Baelfire's eyes glistened with amusement. "Is Baelfire too much of a mouthful?"

Harry just shrugged. "I don't think Baelfire suits you, at least not yet."

"Then what should I call you?" He then proceeded to list a barrage of nicknames for him: Hare, Riri, reaching a point of ridiculousness that Harry had to intervene lest it get even worse.

"Whatever suits you."

Before Baelfire could open his mouth once more, the teen from before decided to grace them with his presence, grinning in a way that didn't seem to bode well for anyone. He gave a little smirk when the two scrambled into a standing position, too unnerved to speak to him in such a vulnerable position. The teen could simply bat an eye and regard him with complete sang-froid, and it would make Harry feel gauche and uncivilized

"Hello, boys. Mind if I steal you away for a moment?"

And Harry wasn't sure if he was joking or not.


End file.
